


Outlines

by Las



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Post Season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Las/pseuds/Las
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set early during the year between S5 and S6. "He has a tendency to talk in negative spaces."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outlines

He has a tendency to talk in negative spaces and you let him. You don’t push, you try not to let your curiosity overwhelm you, and that’s easy, because more than you are curious, you just want him to be okay. You will think in retrospect that that was your first mistake (or was it saying hi, years ago, or was it making him smile, was it that first kiss, the both of you so young with your own recklessness). You can’t even imagine what shape his silences make so you let it go.

And what is that poem, what is it called? It’s by Shel Silverstein and it’s like “they have the same heads and they have the same faces, but not in the very same places” and it flits across your consciousness when you’re running your hands over him one night, lazy strokes over his body and the both of you too lulled for sex, but where is that scar on his arm? The one that he made such a big deal of when you first met, the one that came with some Rambo story about getting in a knife fight at a bar though probably it was a werewolf or something, knowing him, but then you remember you don’t know him, not really. And anyway the scar is gone. Can you ask? Will he tell you? His body is still marked with violence but it’s all in the wrong places, and the scars look newer and less merciful for it. You cover the handprint on his shoulder with your small hand you ask _what happened here?_ He just laughs and says _you wouldn’t believe me if I told you_ , and how presumptuous of him, really, to tell you what you do and don’t believe in. You believe in him. You wouldn’t have let him stay otherwise.

You let yourself say it just this once. _Tell me how you saved the world._

He says _it wasn’t me, it was my brother_ , because it’s always his brother, always this shuttered frailty in his voice that goes raw when he mentions Sam. Tell me about the scars, why they’ve changed, tell me about your brother, if he’s changed, tell me about the handprint on your shoulder, tell me about these tendencies towards silence, towards violence, and why they sound the same.

But more than you are curious, you just want him to be okay, and you watch his eyelids flutter shut as you trace your fingers along his collarbone, up his throat and over his jaw, lingering on his mouth. He kisses them. He takes your hand in his and kisses your palm. You whisper his name in the dark and he says _I’m here_. He kisses your wrist and says _I’m here_ , like he’s the one trying to believe it.


End file.
